“A woman, not a lady, but—but in some state of distress, has come to the door, and begged of me that I find you, and bring you to her. Just say the word, sir, and I’ll give her a coin and send her on her way, but there was something about her look that made me think she was no beggar. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman with tattoos on her face before—”

Croy didn’t wait for the rest. He jumped up from the table and made a few perfunctory bows before hurrying through the door the footman had left open. He worried he was offending the merchant’s wife, and perhaps even his host, but hopefully they would simply think he needed to use the chamber pot.

Cythera waited for him in the receiving hall. He saw at once she had been crying. He rushed toward her and barely remembered in time not to grab her arms as he begged her to tell him what was wrong.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she told him. “I know this was a mistake, but—I couldn’t stay in that house a moment longer. I had to get out. I’ve endangered you, now. I’m sure he was watching me when I left—and now he’ll know where you are, Croy—I’m so sorry.”

“I can take care of myself,” he told her. “What happened?”

“I’ve been punished,” she said. She clenched her eyes closed and sagged toward him. She did not touch him, but moved her face quite close to his. “I failed him.”

“Hazoth?” Croy demanded.

She nodded.

Croy looked up at the gallery that overhung the hall but saw no eavesdroppers there. He pulled a chair away from the wall for her and she sank readily into it. Kneeling down next to her, he moved his hands over hers, wishing he could be of more comfort. “What do you mean, you failed him?” he asked.

She shook her head bitterly. “You’ll think me wicked,” she said. “Please . . . please don’t think me wicked. Last night—you met a thief in the darkened streets, did you not? He was doing some work for Hazoth. Foul business. I was to meet him, with Bikker, and receive the goods he’d stolen.”

“He seemed a good enough sort to me,” Croy said. A twinge of something ignoble went through his heart, but he couldn’t help himself. “A . . . friend of yours?”